A Christmas Riddle
by Arliene
Summary: Tom Riddle hated Christmas. Travelling to the future would not change that fact. Harry Potter hated Riddle. And mistletoes. Time Travel AU. HP/TR Oneshot.


DISCLAIMER: The following story is based on situations and characters from the Harry Potter books which are created and owned by J. K. Rowling, and various other publishers, including, but not limited to Warner Bros., Inc., Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, and Raincoat Books. No use other than entertainment is intended and no financial gain is being made. No trademark or copyright infringement is intended.

Notes: Merry Christmas :) Just a little one-shot that takes place in Harry's sixth year. Enjoy.

* * *

Christmas. One of those festivities he could do without.

Devil's child, they used to call him in the orphanage. A cursed child. _God will punish you._ That's what the matron used to say.

So why would he be religious, if that was the kind of God both Muggles and wizards believed in?

And why did he have to put up with mistletoes and Christmas carols and annoying Dumbledores at this time of the year. Well, Dumbledore tended to annoy him every single day, but today...

Those robes were hideous, with reindeer flying around and old men dressed in red - they looked suspiciously like Slughorn - chasing after them. The colors clashed, making students laugh behind Dumbledore's back. Of course, the Transfigurations professor didn't seem to care.

The old man was humming a tune, inspecting one of those abnormal-looking Christmas trees.

And Tom decided right then that his presence was unnecessary, the Great Hall filled with too much nauseating happiness for him to endure. So he left, ignoring Abraxas and Avery who wanted to follow him. Obviously, he wasn't the only one who disliked Christmas, although most pure-bloods hated it for different reasons.

Still, he had only a few hours left, before the students would leave the castle. After that, Hogwarts would be more or less deserted. Leaving him with enough time and space to solidify his plans for the future.

This was his last year at the school and he wanted to make the most of it.

His footsteps carried him to Headmaster Dippet's office, echoing against the walls, his presence a faint shadow against the light and gleaming, polished armor. A couple of portraits eyed him curiously, perhaps wondering what the Head Boy was doing all by himself instead of celebrating Christmas with the rest of the school. Loneliness was an emotion he was familiar with, but unlike what people expected, it didn't bother Tom in the slightest. He preferred silence.

Eventually he reached the office, ignoring the slight shift in the air, knocking politely. Dippet wanted to discuss how many students would stay at Hogwarts during the holidays and Tom would, of course, be expected to look after them. A thankless job.

The door opened and Tom made sure his expression revealed nothing, before stepping inside.

And promptly he became aware that something was wrong.

Not just the kind of wrong that one could fix or even explain. It wasn't Headmaster Dippet who greeted Tom, but someone else. Someone decidedly less foolish and much harder to deceive.

Albus Dumbledore was sitting behind his desk - Dippet's desk - looking much older, but still wearing hideous robes of a similar Christmas-themed variety.

Tom stood frozen, completely silent and Dumbledore chose that moment to look up, about to greet his guest, before his voice seemed to get stuck in his throat. They regarded each other with similar expressions of disbelief.

Surely, it was a trick of the light, or perhaps some odd joke Dippet wanted to play on him. Because nothing made sense. Dumbledore's white beard made even less sense than his presence in the headmaster's office, but it was still him, albeit 50 years or so older. It was hard to tell. He'd just seen the man in the Great Hall, after all.

It must be a trick.

"Sir?" Tom began, unsure for the first time since...ever.

The door behind him shut with surprising force, leaving him trapped in whatever this place was with a man who was familiar and yet not. Before Tom could draw his wand, his uneasiness replaced by alarm, ropes shot out of Dumbledore's wand, swiftly coiling around Tom's body, nearly making him fall on his back if it wasn't for the armchair appearing behind him, cushioning his fall. Anger and humiliation came just as swift, but unfortunately he had no way of freeing himself without alerting Dumbledore to his wandless abilities. Whatever this was, it needed to end, though. Tom's eyes narrowed.

"What is the meaning of this, Professor?" he asked carefully, disdain barely hidden.

Dumbledore however seemed to regain his composure, although the steely, determined expression had yet to disappear. The old man had never regarded him in such an open way, but maybe this was some sort of impostor. He couldn't be sure, because this situation was entirely too bizarre to comprehend.

"You!" someone shouted, pushing his chair back and Tom's gaze landed on another presence inside the office. And _how_ could he have missed the fact that someone else was currently witnessing his dilemma?

Dark eyes landed on a tall, bespectacled, handsome boy with black hair and green eyes that looked completely unnatural. Certainly, Tom couldn't remember ever having met someone with such expressive eyes, filled with so many emotions. They were currently locked with his own in a staring contest, making Tom forget that it was Dumbledore he should be more focused on.

What the hell was going on here?

"I believe we should be asking you that question, Mr. Riddle," Dumbledore said, not unkind but definitely not with the same air of politeness one would expect under normal circumstances. Clenching his fists, Tom frowned, ignoring the tight ropes around his wrists for the moment. He could remain calm. He would. Despite the situation, he had no reason to lose control in front of these people. And so he did the only thing that made sense. Manipulating his features with practiced ease, he tilted his head to the side, remaining silent, inquisitive.

Inside though, Tom's confusion was warring with his rationale. The possibility of a prank was becoming increasingly less probable, given the facts he was confronted with. One. The boy was definitely a student, although his Gryffindor uniform looked different. Two. This office was Dippet's, same outline, same portraits. Yet, the odd instruments and bookcases were similar to the ones his Transfigurations professor had in his own office. And three. Dumbledore's magic was still the same. Powerful, aged, but with that refined strength that only the original could carry. Tom had always been sensitive when it came to magic and his senses wouldn't suddenly fail him. Which means, this old man was definitely Albus Dumbledore.

"Are you sure it's him, sir?" the boy suddenly asked, his attitude too familiar for someone who should only be a student to a person like Albus Dumbledore. Interesting.

The older wizard remained seated, his gaze still fixed on Tom.

"You would be more adept at noticing any changes, my boy. But yes, he certainly is Tom Riddle, although I strongly suspect that he has nothing to do with our Tom."

The boy's eyes widened, but Tom was still mulling over Dumbledore's words. Adept at noticing changes? Just who was this boy?

"I would appreciate if you explained to me what is going," Tom said, tone frigid. Patience gone. Glancing sideways, he noticed Dumbledore's familiar perching on his stand, further proving Tom's suspicions. The phoenix looked the same as always.

The boy had the nerve to roll his eyes, effectively drawing Tom's attention back to him. "Still as arrogant as always," he murmured, though Tom could hear him perfectly. That kid was crossing too many lines.

Dumbledore suddenly left his seat, approaching the fireplace, before calling for someone named Severus Snape. Tom didn't have the slightest idea who that man was and he still couldn't recall ever having seen the boy with the green eyes at Hogwarts. But Tom's admittedly brilliant mind provided him with an answer that was both insane and highly intriguing. The possibilities alone were endless. Excitement coursed through him and Tom waited.  
He didn't have proof yet, no definite answer to his many questions. So he didn't dare to hope, too focused on the alternatives, the psychological mind games that could be played, with him none the wiser if he believed that he had _time travelled_.

It was a theoretical concept, after all. Mere fantasy to transport another person decades to the future. It wasn't possible. Still, his face blank, Tom looked at this boy, tempted to use the mind arts on him in order to get some much needed answers. He couldn't risk it, though. Not with Dumbledore present.

Another minute passed, before a man stepped through the fireplace, black robes billowing in a way that reminded Tom of an overgrown bat. One of those bats he'd once spotted inside the cave many years ago. Just as disgusting as the man in front of him.

Black eyes settled on him and behind the man, the boy eyed them with suspicion, not looking entirely pleased with the situation. Unbidden, Tom's thoughts turned unfocused when he spotted Dumbledore returning to his seat, briefly supporting himself with one hand, before sitting down. The hand looked as if an extremely dark curse has started to rot everything to the bones.

"Severus, I believe we have a problem," Dumbledore began and Tom stiffened, not sure what to expect.

Three hours later he swore he would kill them all.

* * *

The atmosphere was far from pleasant, surrounded as he was by the festive decoration that made Gryffindor's common room look like a passable imitation of Muggle candy. Tom's headache only increased, though it had much to do with Snape's invasion of his mind.

He'd been in this common room once, in his own time. But he'd long since come to the conclusion that Gryffindor held no mysterious secrets ready to be explored, no secret passages leading to ancient chambers or anything like that. It was entirely boring. Just like the students who got sorted into the house of the brave and chivalrous.

Gryffindors in his own time had been rebellious, loud and obnoxious, although Tom had never had any trouble controlling the lions. And that's where the similarities ended.

Harry Potter, Gryffindor extraordinaire, was unlike anyone Tom had ever met before.

He'd only met him a few hours ago, and yet he felt that his entire destiny, his future was nicely wrapped up in one person; a student who dictated whether Tom would be successful or not. And wasn't that just hilarious?

Apparently, fate had not only granted him with a priceless opportunity to see the fruits of his labour, but it had also cursed him with knowledge Tom would have preferred to be unaware of. Nevertheless, knowledge was power and thus he had no reason to complain, despite the fact that Harry Potter was the single source of misery in his future, according to Dumbledore.

"Don't look at me like that, Riddle. It's not my fault," Potter said, sitting across from him, holding a small book in his hands. Tom had caught a glimpse of notes on the margin, something about potions.

"Whatever makes you say that?" With dark eyebrows raised, Tom gave him a small smile. Harry Potter was easy to rile up, his emotions an open book to Tom's curious eyes. And what a tale he was. Contradicting feelings lightened up those green eyes of his, sometimes darkening in rage and disgust, at other times strangely alight with unspoken challenges that had nothing to do with hatred. Very odd.

The fireplace threw his profile into stark contrast, making that scar of his stand out even more. More often than not, Tom had caught himself staring at it in open fascination, making the other boy uncomfortable.

Fingers drummed against the armrest, another hand clinging to the book as if it could somehow protect Potter from him. The boy was strange.

"You keep staring," Potter replied after a moment, gaze averted. "That means you're planning something. Probably my demise."

Potter was morbid.

Luckily, they were alone, most of the school's inhabitants having left to join their families. It certainly made observing Potter easier. Obviously, he couldn't do much, considering Dumbledore had believed it necessary to place as many enchantments and spells on Tom, before releasing him into the care of his favorite student.

Still, there were a few things Tom could do. Toying with Potter was just one of those things.

"You're confusing me with my older version, Harry. Can I call you Harry?"

Furrowed brows, jaw clenched. Potter was responding so nicely. Crossing his legs, Tom observed the boy's lean form, watching as muscles tensed, Tom's proximity and their conversation making the wizard shift in his seat.

"No. And there's not much difference between the two of you. Once a psychopath, always a psychopath."

Well, the boy really was an impertinent brat. Lips pressed together, Tom tried to hold onto his composure.

"You have strong opinions." Tom leaned forward, steepling his fingers. "It's rather unfortunate that you're neither intelligent enough nor open-minded enough to understand that the future me is a completely different person." Potter scoffed, meeting his gaze and holding it. Tom licked his lips. "Or can you remember the Dark Lord ever telling you that he's travelled to the future. Or that he met you before? Surely he would remember."

Realization dawned on him and Potter straightened. Good. The boy could keep up.

"You mean the timeline-,"

"Has changed. Yours not, but mine certainly did." Tom couldn't hide his own amusement, seeing as Potter's mind finally grasped the intricacies of this event. "And that means you're essentially dealing with two people, different versions of me."

"Fuck," Potter cursed, suddenly standing up, his potions book discarded. Running a hand over his messy hair, Potter began to pace, indifferent to Tom's stare. "You're stuck." It wasn't a question.

What a curious mess of contradictions. One moment Potter was acting like he didn't know what to do with Tom, the next he was either challenging him or ignoring his presence.

This was new. The possibility of time travel had excited him, yes, but it wasn't so much the act that made Tom think of the many possibilities, but the people in this time that intrigued him more. Snape's mind for one thing had not yielded as much information as he needed, but Dumbledore's explanations had been a good start.

Potter seemed to pick up on Tom's thoughts. He pointed at the stack of books Dumbledore had handed over.

"You need to catch up. There's a lot you don't know and I would prefer if you worked out this time travel business as soon as possible. The sooner you leave, the better for all of us."

Tom smirked. "What makes you think I _want_ to leave?"

Potter stilled and something in his expression darkened, which made Tom's fingers twitch, anticipation coursing through his veins. Hands falling to his side, he watched as Potter approached him without fear, bending forward until they were within inches of each other. Rough hands gripped his armrests and Tom's vision was suddenly filled with green.

"It doesn't matter what you want, Riddle," Potter whispered. The fireplace behind them crackled, shadows encircling the two of them in an intimate dance of light and darkness. Tom's breath shortened. "I don't care how many of you are running around these days."

Horcruxes.

Potter didn't know. He couldn't. It was impossible. Tom's blood seemed to freeze and his eyes widened, watching as Potter used the height difference between them to intimidate him further. Normally, such tactics never worked on him, child's play as it was in Slytherin house, but Potter had an air of controlled violence around him that made his movements seem threatening.

Threat. Harry Potter was a threat.

Gaze shifting, Tom's eyes landed on something above them, hanging from the ceiling, the branches extending innocently towards them. Mistletoe.

Potter must have caught Tom's wavering attention, because his eyes followed the direction of Tom's gaze, landing on the culprit. And just as quickly as it had come, his aggression fell apart, posture mirroring panic and horror, which Tom might have found amusing on any other day.

"Bloody hell," Potter murmured, blinking rapidly. But the image stayed and Tom didn't quite know what to make of that. He knew it was charmed in such a way that forced them to do _that_. But he'd been watching Potter avidly, unaware of what was happening around him, which was so unlike Tom. Today was a really strange day for him. The possibility of it all being a dream or nightmare lingered in his mind, but unfortunately Tom's dreams tended to be nonexistent.

The decision was taken away from him. Another thing that should have enraged him. But thoughts became secondary as soon as Potter closed the remaining distance between them. One hand touched the back of his neck, warm fingers gliding over his skin, before getting entangled with dark locks. Potter forced his head back and Tom's heart sped up, pulse racing in time with Potter's trembling fingers.

Tom had never let anybody touch him like that. So why did it suddenly become so easy to comply? Why did it become so easy to move his arms, forcing Potter closer until he was almost sitting in his lap?

"I will make you leave," Potter promised, his pupils dilated. And then soft lips connected with his own, nervous yet forceful in a way that mirrored Potter's personality.

They were kissing. And it wasn't the kind of kiss that ended as soon as it began, though it should have been the logical thing to do. Gripping the back of his neck, Potter opened his mouth and Tom mirrored his actions, feeling muscles tensing underneath his touch.

Potter was incredibly warm and his tongue met Tom's, the kiss turning heated, out of control.

Tom Riddle didn't lose control. It was simply unheard of. Unfortunately, he had no experience whatsoever when it came to this and he could feel Potter's insecurity, his desire to end this warring with his want.

Tom didn't want it to end. Didn't care that he had no control over his responses. Feeling Potter's broad back, his responsive body, he was sure of one thing only. His own desires.

Gripping harder, he heard Potter's groan, mouth parted and glasses askew as lips trailed lower, kissing the exposed skin of his neck. It was arousing, unreal and soon Potter's lips found his again, chasing after something unknown, the intensity of it all surprising them both.

Tom began to slide his hand along Potter's arm, going lower, every movement an instinct that had nothing to do with planned seduction. Potter bit down on his lips and Tom gasped, heat coiling around him as his eyes found Potter's. Want. It's all he could think of.

Something in Tom's gaze must have broken the illusion and Potter stilled, his expression turning horrified, before he quickly moved away from Tom.

Displeasure replaced his lust, an unfulfilled need that made him want to go after Potter and continue what they had started.

"If you want me to leave, that's not the best way of doing it, Potter," Tom said after a while, breaking the silence. Potter's breathing was too loud and Tom had a hard time controlling his own expression, which is why he left it at that. Honesty was an unfamiliar concept to him, but Potter had seen it all already. Why hide something they both wanted?

"Start reading," Potter hissed, turning around to leave the common room. He looked shaken.

Tom stared after him, tempted to follow. His mind swirled with unfamiliar emotions, tasting foreign to him. So with nothing to do, he picked up one of the books, eyes scanning the title, before turning the cover. It was a book about famous wizards and all too soon he found the name Harry Potter listed on top, pages of pages dedicated to the Boy-Who-Lived.

A picture of Harry followed, smiling innocently up at him and inadvertently Tom's fingers tapped against the page, his need to touch still present.

He started to read. And knew it was a Christmas tale worth reading.


End file.
